Inside Out
by TrenchcoatsAreSexy
Summary: House's new prison home has been corrupted by sadists; it may take another to save him.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters on House, and I make no money from this.**

Monika Alvarez's eyes were a light, cinnamon shade of brown. Her eyes didn't smile, instead, they constantly frowned, because she was in a thankless job. Being the Lieutenant for a wealthy area was a constant stress; whenever anyone important got pulled over, they would march into the police station and demand to talk to the "man" in charge – they would get Alvarez and then they would smirk at the fact that the "man in charge" was indeed a woman.

In Alvarez's eyes, that stopped being ironic about thirty years ago.

And now things were worse. The new case that was on her desk could set Princeton's corrections back ten years and shatter the PR job she had been working the last three years to build up. But she couldn't ignore it.

Princeton Area Prison really should have been a country club place. After all, the area that it pulled its population from was a pretty affluent area. People should have been able to walk in, do their time, and then leave and not bother everyone again. Alvarez wasn't sure where in the hell that concept that gone awry.

But here it was in the file on her desk – a man named Christopher Hall, a 25 year old snotty little car thief from a nice family.

Maybe it would be better for Alvarez to stop thinking of him as a snotty brat, though, because Christopher Hall was dead. In the ground. Beaten to death.

The prison had called it a fight between inmates, but the coroner had found tell-tale signs of what had to be prison abuse – taser marks and circular bruises that looked like they were from a nightstick.

She had to put her best guys on this – the problem was, being that Princeton's crime level was always rather low, that she only really had four "guys" at her disposal; the Detective Bureau consisted, specifically, of two men and two women.

Her favored detective was Lee Hamilton, a smart-dressing African-American in his mid-thirties who had a degree in Criminal Justice and a good head on his shoulders, if a tendency to flirt with every female who walked through the doors of the station.

The downside to putting Hamilton on the case, however, was that it was a case that required a strong partnership – and that was where Hamilton was currently having some trouble.

His partner was busty blonde Neely McVee, and she was a capable detective and a hard worker, but also had a host of personal problems that seemed to keep cropping up into her job. Alvarez was pretty sure that she was currently carrying on an illicit affair with some people in Internal Affairs, which was likely to become a problem for everybody sooner rather than later.

There was no way she wanted IA wrapped up in this unless there was no other choice.

Which left, quite tragically, Tritter and Bennett.

The Dream Team. The Odd Couple. Alvarez had given them more than one sarcastic nickname in the time she had been their boss. But this case had to be theirs, and she had to hope that they wouldn't screw it up.

"Detective Tritter," Alvarez began, tossing the file across her desk. "This is your new case. Chris Hall."

Detective Michael Tritter had 25 years on the force, and ten years as a detective. He had an ego the size of Miami and a general bad attitude, as well as a violent dislike of Alvarez.

He also had a very immediate bad feeling about the case file he was about to open.

Maybe if he just left it there, it would explode already and he wouldn't be forced to deal with the damn thing.

But as the time ticked by more and more, it didn't explode and Tritter opened it up, flipping lazily through the autopsy report.

"What are you thinking?" he inquired. "Police brutality?"

"Well, not police," Alvarez corrected quickly. "This is Corrections. Not our guys." Tritter nodded; he should have known better than to paint "Alvarez's guys" with this brush.

"Okay, well, prison brutality. How do we plan on getting to the bottom of this? I mean, the reason this stuff goes unreported is because it's so difficult to get inside a place like this."

"That's why they pay you the big bucks, isn't it, Detective?" Alvarez replied coolly. "You need a plan. You need to figure out who is doing this, whether it's one person or the whole damn prison that needs to be gutted, and you need to try and keep this quiet until we know who is responsible. The last thing Princeton needs is a goddamned American-grown Abu Gharib scandal."

"Well, my plan would be to try and infiltrate the prison with undercover operatives," Tritter said quickly. "Get some people, arrest them on fake charges and cycle them about, see what they find out. Maybe use some CI's who are already known within the prison system."

"Our CI's are engaged," Alvarez replied. Tritter's eyes went wide and the blues flared to red.

"Doing what? Busting high school kids selling pot? Tell me, Lieutenant, what are they off doing? What crime in Princeton is bigger than this?" Alvarez didn't answer.

"I need you to do it. I need Bennett on the ground and you in the prison once you get information we can use." Alvarez's words rang out, clear as day orders. "As soon as possible."

"Okay, then," Tritter said, holding his arms up in defeat. "Whatever you say. I really want to spend the next couple months running around Princeton Prison, so I'm thrilled." He sighed and shrugged. "Can you get me a list of inmates? People I can try and contact after they've been released, if they know anything?"

"Here's a list," Alvarez said as she pushed a stack of papers across to Tritter. "And you might want to direct yourself to page 66, line 4."

Tritter looked at his boss in annoyance, but proceeded to flip to the page indicated. He ran his finger over the bright white paper, wondering why they even bothered with such nice paper for such ridiculous documents, when his finger stopped at a name.

"House, Gregory."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Tritter looked into the mirror as he splashed water on his face, a droplet catching on his light blonde hair and sticking like a dot. _Here's it._ In about five minutes, he would have to pitch this whole thing to Bennett, and he was fully determined to use each and every second of it to stall.

The man didn't take to undercover. He'd never tell Alvarez that, however, because she had a distinct tendency to take anything that Tritter acknowledged not liking and continually assign him to do just that. So he'd acquiesced, nodded his approval, and then walked out of the office making a list in his head of every single thing that was bound to go wrong.

Tritter also knew that every single thing he'd thought of would be exactly what would come out of Bennett's mouth as soon as he proposed it, and he wasn't sure that he was up to explaining why he needed to take this case.

It was something to do with House. As much as he tried to shrug off every feeling that he still had under his skin about his vendetta against the doctor, he couldn't quite stop himself from seeing House as the "one that got away."

_Except he didn't get away – he's in prison. _

And nastier and nastier things could be happening to him as the seconds ticked away. Tritter figured that in a lot of people, that thought would have triggered something – either a grim satisfaction or a sadistic satisfaction or an unexpected sympathy, but for him there was simply the realization that this was a case that was calling to him, personally and exclusively. This was a case earmarked in every way for him, and it'd be like… spitting in the face of fate to turn it down. It had been that name, House's name, on that sheet that had made it certain. He couldn't say no.

He made his way out of the bathroom, listening to the door clap shut as he exited, and found himself, almost immediately, faced with Bennett. Tritter was convinced that she had a sixth sense of some sort when it came to him, a hidden GPS with an ever beeping dot labeled with the affectionate nickname she had given him: "Trit".

"Where've you been?" she inquired, hands on her hips in a way that drew the older man's attention to her shape – she was a small woman, slim and petite, with dark rich skin and big brown eyes. She tended to look younger than her twenty-eight years, which heightened the contrast between the two – she was every inch the spirited rookie, and he was the old-comer who everyone expected to exclaim "I'm getting too old for this shit."

"Taking a piss," Tritter shot back.

"One that took you five hours?"

"Alvarez has a case for me. For us." Tritter didn't believe in beating around the bush. He knew there was going to be no part of this that Bennett was going to like, but he also knew there was no way to sugarcoat it. "There's a prison brutality situation going on at Princeton State Prison."

"And… we're doing what? Interviewing some people?" Bennett inquired. "I'll grab my coat – let's go."

"She wants me to go undercover."

Bennett looked as if she had just swallowed a fly.

"You? Undercover? In a prison? Hate to tell you, but your look basically screams 'cop'. How do you plan to get anyone to tell you anything? Hell, how do you even plan to get inside the prison in the first place? Don't tell me you're gonna get some gang tats, because I'm not sitting around while you bitch about getting them removed."

"I was thinking of going the 'dirty cop' route," Tritter said quietly. Bennett looked at him, her eyes flaring up.

"You're an idiot, then," she snapped. "You do know what happens to cops in prison?"

"It's a country club prison."

"Do I have to remind you what you're investigating?" Bennett railed. "Hello, police brutality!" Tritter sighed.

"There's more."

"I hate hearing those words from you. If you only knew how much I hate hearing those words from you." Bennett put her hands on either side of her head and stared at her partner. "Okay, shoot."

"House is in that prison."

Bennett mimed punching herself in the face.

"House? As in the same House you nearly got fired for harassing? Is this about him?" She curled her hand back down to her hip and looked into Tritter's ice-blue eyes. "You do know that you shouldn't be on this case. You know it as well as I do. How do you know that House won't figure you out and expose you to get back at you?" Tritter shook his head.

"Not his style."

"You don't know his 'style'. You investigated him for a couple weeks, you didn't marry the guy."

"I know enough about his general type," Tritter replied fluidly, putting his own hands on his hips. "I know that he could be a valuable asset."

"For what? You planning on needing your appendix out while you're in there?"

"The guy knows how to read people. He knows their weaknesses."

"So do you. You know what I think?"

Tritter sighed.

"No, but I'm sure you're about to tell me."

"I think you're doing this to clear up old business. And I think it is a big old mistake." She took a step forward and gazed up at him. "One that could get your stupid ass killed."

"I'll take my risks," Tritter replied. "We can really crack this case. And we have to, before the media gets a hold of it – or Alvarez will have all our asses out the door."

"And what am I supposed to do? Just sit back?"

"That's about it. Sit back and wait for my call. At least you won't be stuck making notches on the wall." Bennett snorted.

"You have seen prison movies, right?" she asked simply, before turning and walking away, shaking her head.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

The next steps worked more quickly than Tritter could have anticipated. It was a little scary, actually, how quickly they could make it look as if he really were corrupt, and he considered that if Alvarez were just a little bit more motivated, she could have really done this, if she had wanted to.

Luckily, Alvarez hadn't, at least not "for real", but Tritter still didn't have his mind wrapped around what he was going to do. He had no idea what he was going to run into as soon as he walked into this prison, and he'd have very little recourse on how to get out if things went badly quicker than he anticipated.

Tritter had managed to be very quickly "sentenced", something which required stacks of forged and copied and altered paperwork, but the deal was done within a week. He was off to Princeton Prison, with recording equipment smuggled in a manner of which the less was said, the better.

That part had all seemed like a blur, reds and greens and blues bleeding together like a test pattern on a TV with a broken screen. As the cell door closed, however, he found that he was very much alone.

Here went nothing.

He didn't know what he expected – maybe he thought that, immediately, the guards were going to start walking down the halls, pulling out random people and shooting them in the head.

But he knew it was more subtle than that. Hell, even in POW camps, it was a little more subtle than that… as far as he knew.

He'd never been a POW. He had read John McCain's autobiography, however, and was beginning to wish that he hadn't. Because it was giving him ideas about what was going to befall him over the next few days. Could befall him, he corrected. Maybe nothing would happen.

That prospect was, if anything, even worse. After all, Tritter hated few things worse than being made to look the fool.

He turned around and looked at his surroundings; it was an average-sized cell, and he was at present its only occupant. Given that there were two bunks, however, he figured that this wouldn't be the case for very long.

_I have to figure out how to get House in here._

It was an odd thought, and he didn't really know what undertones to attach to it. Malice, maybe? Or compassion?

How many prisoners must there be in here? How could he cycle through them to get to House?

Tritter tapped his finger against the wall. It brought to mind things he'd read, about those POWs, and how they'd used tap codes when in solitary. To keep strong.

It was like a form of Morse code, he remembered. They'd start by tapping "shave and a haircut" and if the coast was clear, their next-door neighbor would reply with "two bits".

Tritter sighed and tapped "shave and a haircut."

There was a pause, before the person in the adjoining cell tapped back, "two bits".

The next realization that Tritter had was that the tap code would be a little more difficult to implement if there was no way to translate the tap code to the person on the other side.

He needed a cup… or something. Maybe he'd do that, use a cup to listen in to the other side or make those haphazard little walkie-talkies that he and his sisters had made growing up.

Barring that, he simply leaned against the wall and exclaimed, "Is anybody on the other side?"

He half-expected it to echo, but it didn't.

For a moment he thought he had imagined that tap response, next to him. Maybe he was already getting stir-crazy.

Then a voice cut through: "Hey, man, why do you keep tapping? You got a problem or something?"

Tritter nearly fell on his ass in surprise.

"Hey, sorry – yeah, just checking to see if anyone was there. I'm trying to find somebody… a, uh, buddy of mine, ya know?" He lapsed back into the slang he tended to use when back on the outskirts of Camden, trying to sound more like one of the "everyday" folks and fight off the criticism of being, instead, a snarky and elitist cop.

"Sure. What's the name? But you're gonna owe me one. What's your name?"

"Tritter. I'm looking for a guy, name of House."

"House? Like the shit somebody lives in?"

"One and the same."

Tritter wished he could grab this guy by the collar – what a pain in the ass. And owing this guy a favor wasn't going to be the most disagreeable thing about this assignment, either.

He wanted to thrash Alvarez. He just didn't know who he wanted to thrash first.

"I can ask around."

"He walks with a cane…" Tritter continued. "I can make it all worth your while. Older guy. Beard."

There was a long pause.

"How you gonna make it worth my while?"

"Seventy bucks," Tritter replied quickly. "Now do you know the guy or not? I don't have all fucking day." The disembodied voice on the other side of the wall chuckled.

"Actually… Tritter… nice name by the way, real 'street' – in here, you do have all day. We all have all day."

"I've noticed," Tritter retorted. "Do you know House or are you just gonna keep wasting my time? I'm not a patient man." And he wasn't.

"Alright, alright man. Jeez, you're here one day and you think you own the damn place… I can find you House."

"Really?" Tritter was unconvinced. "How?"

"Older guy with a cane, ya said?"

"Yeah." This had better be good, or Tritter was going to throw something. Other than a Bible, there really wasn't anything else to throw. He wasn't a religious man, but that struck him as just a tad wrong, so he calmed his temper. "And?"

"He's sleeping across from me in this cell. Got a big ol' bump on his head, too. Somebody busted him up good."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Tritter let it all sink in for a few moments. He needed to assess the situation. The guy on the other side of the wall could just be screwing with him. He had a general nose for liars, though. This guy seemed like a complete and total jackass – probably a drug dealer or something, at least he seemed to sound like one at first listen – but unfortunately, he was probably telling the truth.

"How badly is he hurt?" he pressed. "Does he need medical attention?" Hell _of a lot of good if he does, _Tritter added internally, _then again, he's a doctor. Physician, heal thyself. _

"Hell if I know, man. He's just been curled up in a ball in the corner most of the day."

"Is he alive?"

Well, it was the next logical question. Tritter didn't mean to be insensitive, but some of these times it was best to simply cut to the chase.

"Yeah. He's breathing. And they don't keep them long if they're dead. It's bad for…" he trailed off, as if trying to figure out the word.

"Morale," Tritter supplied, sounding, perhaps, a little more cheery than was appropriate. "Listen, can you try and wake him up? Get him to talk with me?"

"What's in it for me, Tritter?" the man on the other side retorted.

"I have connections. I can hook you up." He said it with confidence; that much was true. Once this whole undercover debacle was over, he was sure he could erase a few of this guy's convictions. He didn't really want to, given that he tended to feel as if these kind of rewards were a way of saying it was okay to be a damned criminal, so long as you rubbed elbows with the right kind of folks, but… it was a necessary evil in the police world.

"What kind of connections?"

"I don't kiss and tell. Frankly, you haven't bothered to tell me much so I can't help you very much."

There was a pause, followed by a loud sigh of extreme exasperation.

"I'm going to kick your ass, man, when I finally see you face to face," the man on the other side declared, before offering up, "Sure. Listen. He's got a lot of bruises. His leg's messed up…"

"His leg has always been messed up. How messed up?"

"I don't know, man. How messed up was it before?"

"Just wake him up, jackass," Tritter hissed.

"Yo, man, my name's David. At least call me by my name."

Tritter blinked. It didn't really make him feel better that the big-bad crime underlord next to him was going by "David". He could think of some less intimidating names, but not many.

"Okay, okay. David. Try and wake him up. It's important."

There was no sound for a while, and Tritter was partially convinced that David (if that really was his name – maybe he was just screwing with him) had given up or rolled over and gone back to sleep.

Then he heard it.

"Tritter." A single, tired word, in House's voice.

"Dr. House." Admittedly, Tritter hadn't figure out what the hell he was actually going to say to the other man when and if he found him. Perhaps he had been partially hoping that he wouldn't, after all. It wasn't as if he wanted to clink glasses and reminiscence over old times. But he had to be sure House was alive; he didn't know exactly why but yet, he knew. And here he was. In the flesh (or at least, in the voice). "How are you?"

"Less than stellar," came the dry response. There was pain in it, but Tritter didn't know whether to attribute it to House's constant struggles with his leg or to the beating the guards had allegedly laid on him.

"Sounds like it. Listen. What's going on? What can you tell me?"

"Why are you in here, Tritter? What did you do wrong?" House asked in response. Tritter scoffed. The man was impossible.

"I'll tell you later," the detective retorted. "Right now, I just need to know what I need to know. Is it true that the guards are…"

He was cut off by the sound of boots hitting the ground.

"Why did you cut…"

"SHHH!" Tritter hissed. "Be quiet. Someone's coming."

He slumped down in the corner of his cell and tried to stay as quiet as possible. He wanted to be able to get up and see what was going on, but he knew the easiest way to stay off the radar was to have his eyes to the wall – hell, they'd probably order it soon enough anyway.

Tritter felt a chill go up his spine unlike any other.

_This is where it happens._

_Is this where it will happen to me?_

He swallowed hard and held his breath as the sound of boots got closer, closer, until they were almost at his cell.

_Not me._

The thought surprised him, and he wished that he could have choked it off, strangled it as soon as it reached the front of his brain. He didn't have any information yet and he was already pleading in his head?

No. That wasn't what Detective Michael Tritter did. What he did was investigate, get to the bottom of things, and then punish whoever was responsible.

_Punish the wicked. Like an avenging…_

He heard the cell door next to him open, heard the metal clink.

"Hey man, don't come in here!"

David's voice.

"Hey man, listen…"

"Shut up." The replying voice was strangely soft, but deadly serious. There was a trace of an accent, some kind of European accent maybe, but Tritter couldn't place it.

"Hey man, listen, please, I didn't do any…"

Tritter flinched as he heard the sound of a fist – maybe a fist, or maybe an object – impacting with flesh, followed by a yelp and then a scream.

"Please, man, no!"

"Shut the fuck up." The fact that the man wasn't yelling made it all the more chilling.

Then there was the sound of a fist again and then, worst of all, there was simply silence.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

When Tritter finally fell asleep that night, more from exhaustion than an actual desire to rest, he dreamt of men with no eyes. Men he knew. Cops he'd worked with. They were dressed as prison guards, now, walking back and forth with night sticks at the ready, and not a single one of them had any eyes. Just black holes with little red dots, like the laser point of a computer mouse, shining out and ready to burn.

He shivered in his sleep, clutched for something but found nothing except for cold, hard ground.

And a_ thump _sound, next to him.

Where had that sound come from?

He opened his eyes, slowly, not quite wanting to see. Wanting to hope that he could be back in his bed at home, but how sad was that? First night on this job and he wanted to be home hugging his teddy bear?

_Man up, Tritter, _said the voice in his head, and then it changed to _Man up, Trit,_ and that time it was Bennett's voice and that time he had no choice but to listen.

_Miranda._

When she was on his mind, he had no choice but to follow through.

So he opened his eyes and looked around. Maybe he shouldn't have been surprised at his new roommate, but he was.

"House?" Tritter murmured.

Maybe if it was a mirage, but if he had gotten to choose his own mirage, he'd have gone for a couple of leggy blondes that had a thing for older detectives.

The figure squirmed slightly. Despite the relative darkness, Tritter could see his outline, prostrate against the cell floor; long legs, a bearded head.

"Yeah," came the rasped response. He picked up his head. "Tritter?"

"Guess this place has got a sense of irony," Tritter said dryly.

Tritter could sense rather than see House rolling his eyes.

"What brings you here?" he asked.

Tritter nearly told him; then, he hesitantly, nearly said "I can't tell you", which would have just started House off on some infantile guessing game, before settling on the cover story.

"They think they busted me on some corruption bullshit. I'm innocent."

"So is everyone in prison," House replied sarcastically. "Didn't you learn that at the Academy?"

Tritter didn't respond.

"So what's this I hear about well… some screwed-up shit happening here?"

"Oh," House snorted. "You've noticed. How observant."

"If you respond with 'you ought to be a detective', I _will _punch you."

House didn't seem to want to argue it anymore, and he gave a little shake of his head.

"When I first got here, it was pretty normal. I mean, for prison – I figure. But then things started to get, shall we say, screwed up. They got a new warden. He started to take 'problem prisoners' up to his quarters – they said it was to train them, give them more responsibilities. But they came back with bruises. Burns, some of them. I tried to treat them, but I don't have the equipment I need in here. I improvised as best I could."

Tritter blinked. It seemed more like some movie than real life.

"What about the prison infirmary?"

"They don't take them. Or it doesn't exist anymore."

"So people are just walking around with… wait, what about people with medical conditions?"

House shrugged.

"People are trading inhalers like it's the black market. It's insanity here. And no one's noticed. At least as far as I know. I tried to help. This is what I got for it." He raised his arms to show Tritter the bruises trailing up and down the undersides.

"Doesn't seem like you, to be scared off by intimidation or bullying."

House smirked.

"Never said that I was scared off," he qualified. "These are the tactics. But I can play the game, too. I just don't want to play. People are dying here. People have died."

"Do you have proof, House? Names?"

"I can get proof. But it sounds like you're not in here for corruption."

"What, I can't be a cop even when I'm in here?" Tritter shot back. "I see flagrant crime, brutal crime and I can't try to stop it?"

"You can," House replied. "At your own risk."

Tritter swallowed and looked House up and down again.

"Your cane? Your leg?"

House shook his head.

"I've been improvising, again," he replied. "They took it as soon as I got here."

"Hasn't anyone been by to check on you? Wilson? Cuddy?"

"They don't allow visitors. Plus, I think both are pretty furious with me. They have a right, I suppose. I did drive my car into Cuddy's house, after all."

Tritter snorted.

"You're decidedly nonchalant about the whole thing."

"Oh, really? Sorry, I thought I was putting on my 'upset' face. Must have left it at home."

The detective grumbled, reaching out and grabbing one of House's shoulders. He felt more than a little ridiculous arguing with someone who couldn't even sit up yet.

"This is serious, House. These people are all in danger. And that includes me and you. If all you're telling me is true then we _have _to get a message back home, or else… well, we're all screwed."

"Do you have any great ideas?"

"Not yet," Tritter admitted. "I was hoping you had a few."

"Telepathy?" House asked. "I can usually tell when Wilson's taking a shit. Maybe that will come in handy."

Tritter's fist shook, and it was all he could do not to strike him.

Instead, he asked, "Can you stand up?"

House nodded, then shook his head.

"Need some help, I guess."

The detective extended his hand and grasped House's, pulling him to his feet. He couldn't help but wonder if he was going to be as bad off in a couple days and, if they were both beaten to a pulp, who the hell was going to help him? He had to keep his wits about him.

Either way, he didn't have much of a choice.

_Buckle up, Trit. It's gonna be a bumpy ride._


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Tritter sat and wondered what Miranda was doing back at the station. She was probably fidgeting; she always fidgeted. She read the paper, always read the _New York Post_, always bit her nails and drummed her fingers on her desk as she did. Always curled her pretty hair around her finger.

He was surprised by just how much he missed little things like that.

Tritter wondered if House missed Cuddy like that, but there was no way he was going to ask. This wasn't male bonding time. Unless House had a plan to get out of this hellhole, Tritter didn't want to speak with him, didn't want to deal with the backtalk and smart remarks.

Not while his heart was beating out of his chest like this.

He focused on the sound of House's breathing. A way of reminding himself that he wasn't alone in here, and that even if House was a serious jerk, it was better than him being dead.

Tritter shivered. He wondered if they did that in here, just left bodies behind for a while and let the cellmates freak out about it. With a deep breath, he pulled himself together.

Thinking about something like that wasn't going to help the situation at all. He needed to keep a cool head.

Not usually one of his strong suits, admittedly.

He reached over and nudged House. The other man stirred awake, and the detective sighed.

He felt like he was wasting his time. What could he do to save these people? It had all been a mistake.

As House sat up, groaning, Tritter regretted that decision as well. The sound of steel-tipped boots was echoing off the walls, and the wearer of said boots had just appeared a few feet shy of House's cell.

The lock rattled when he put in the key.

Tritter raised his eye to look at the man, now – he had short brown hair and must have been in his late thirties, early forties. His eyes were dark blue.

There was nothing in them.

Well, maybe that wasn't quite true. But what Tritter found there shook him.

It was unrepentant… something. He didn't really have a word for it, not yet.

"Get to your feet," the guard growled. Tritter rose. "I meant both of you." Tritter looked down at House.

"I don't think he can stand," he spoke up in a low voice. _Don't provoke anything, _he told himself, _just point out the facts. Convince him to leave._

But even as he made it his game-plan, he knew that there was next to no chance of it actually happening.

"I said," the guard repeated, "Get to your feet."

House gazed up and tried to stand. His arms hoisted him up all right but once he was all the way up, his bad leg crumbled beneath him.

Tritter winced. He tried to grab the man's arm and hold him up, but it had already happened by the time the reflex traveled to his brain.

The guard stepped inside the cell.

The man reached for House, and before Tritter really knew what he was doing, his cop-sense kicked in and he placed himself between the two.

Like hell was he going to let this prick beat up a cripple.

Tritter had to stop himself from realizing what a hypocrite he sounded like, thinking that.

In the end, it didn't really matter whether he stopped himself from thinking it or not, because the guard's fist connected with his face.

He could hear the crunch, but didn't feel the pain. Not yet.

Nor did he drop. He stayed upright, out of some stubbornness he had always known he possessed, but not to this extent.

He could feel, rather than see, House's eyes watching him. He didn't fight back; he was too far in shock to do that and it probably wouldn't have helped, anyway. But he stood.

Finally, the guard threw him to the side and he hit the wall, hard, his hand first and then his ribs. Tritter let out a low groan as he saw the guard reach down, pull House up by his tattered collar, and pull his face close to the guard's own.

"When I tell you to get up," he hissed. "You get up. Understand?"

House didn't reply. Tritter couldn't pinpoint whether it was defiance, or if the man just didn't have the energy.

"House," Tritter rasped across the cell. He didn't even know what he was trying to warn the doctor about, but he said it regardless.

And then the fists fell, the whole thing turned into a flurry of red and Tritter was sure it was over with.

His brain shut down, got lost in reels of tapes he'd had to watch on the job. Dealing with PTSD in Your Colleagues and Yourself. Stuff he'd brushed off.

He had never watched a man die. There had been a couple car crashes, some close calls, one or two near overdoses but never all the way.

He could feel his heart pounding even harder, was sure the guard heard it, too Maybe that was what made the guard finally turn and walk away. Tritter heard the door clank shut. All hope of escape sealed off. Hell, all hope itself sealed off.

He stared at the wall. Wondered how long he could stare at the wall before he'd have to turn around.

Thought of Miranda with her pretty, curly black hair and the way she twirled it in her fingers and how nice she smelled, like lavender and how he would never feel that way again, because now he had watched a man die.

And then he heard it. Like a bird chirping after a particularly dangerous electrical storm, so utterly unaware or maybe so in tune with why its sound was so needed.

It was a quiet little gasping sound that turned into a cough, that turned into a breath, that turned into a…

House was breathing.

House was breathing.

House was alive.


End file.
